A Bitter Shade of Plum
by AngelisIgniRelucent
Summary: It's dark. It's grey and it's cold and it's miserable, or maybe that's just because Blaine's on his own and he's always hated the silence.


It's dark. It's grey and it's cold and it's miserable, or maybe that's just because Blaine's on his own and he's always hated the silence. He's always hated the way it echoes in an empty room, the way it makes the thoughts in his head reverberate all the louder, the way it doesn't let him forget. That's why he plays so many instruments – to fill the silence. That's why he took up singing after his father took his violin away and wouldn't buy him a piano – he couldn't take his voice away, could he? No matter how hard he tried. Anyway, he thinks it's the stillness, too, that's getting him down. He's always been a restless soul, fiddling and fidgeting until his mom glared or his dad shouted. Because the room always seemed too still unless he was bouncing his knee up and down or tapping out a rhythm with his fingertips. The flat's completely empty now, though, except for him. The décor which had seemed so _stylish_ and _modern_ and '_just what I was looking for!_' at the time now just seems cold. But maybe that's just because Blaine's on his own and he's always hated that stupid lamp anyway.

Blaine stands up, wincing at the scratch of his chair on the hardwood floor, and heads across to the kitchen, thankful for the fact he's wearing socks because they make hardly a whisper of sound to break the almost holy quiet. He puts a jug of coffee on to brew – it's quieter than the kettle – and he rummages around for an unused mug, careful to close each cupboard door so they don't make a sound. He pads down to the sofa with his steaming mug and curls himself up on it. He can see the busy New York traffic outside, but he can't hear it thanks to those stupidly expensive windows he bought off that salesman who came to the door because he was just too nice to say no. He can see the yellow-gold leaves falling too, scattering the sidewalk. He almost smiles as he remembers back when he thought the streets of New York City were always paved in gold, not just in the fall. But that was a long time ago now.

He looks away from the bustle and the business – it makes him feel too still – and instead stares at the blank television screen. He doesn't even consider switching on – that would mean getting up to find the remote, and he's just settled into the most _comfortable _position, and it's not like he would even know where to _begin _to look for it. So he just stays, fingers curled like claws around the too-hot mug of coffee, breathing in the too-rich smell. He takes a sip, jerking his head back as he scalds his lip, the too-bitter taste assaulting his tongue. He sighs. He knows there isn't any milk in the flat, and sugar will only make it taste worse. He takes another sip, this time blowing gently before he does so. He shudders a little as he feels the hot liquid sliding down his throat and pooling in his stomach. He can feel it burning his insides, but at least he's not shivering any more.

He starts violently as the phone rings, blaring obnoxiously through the calm. He blinks at it, twice, three times. The answer machine bleeps and suddenly Rachel's voice is blaring almost as obnoxiously through the calm as the phone. _"Hi Blaine!"_ Her voice is bright and chipper. He grimaces. _"Just checking to see how you are! You never returned my call last week … I'm worried about you. I just want you to know that I'm not taking sides. Kurt will always be my best friend, but you're my friend too, so-"_ Blaine reaches down behind the sofa and unplugs the machine.

He muses that the city that never sleeps is an apt setting as he squints at the flashing numbers on the oven. Three twenty-seven. He plugs the answer machine back in and replays the message. He doesn't grimace at Rachel's chipper voice because he can hear Kurt breathing in the background. He doesn't know whether to feel grateful or thoroughly patronised that Rachel's check-ups were on Kurt's instruction. He settles for the latter. He notices that Kurt's breath hitches at _'I'm worried about you' _and it colours his vision a bitter shade of plum.

At least it's not grey any more.

**Ugh, I don't know what's gotten into me… reviews would be nice though :)  
xx**


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